Timeo Nada, editor for Penmen Books, has run into a little prick these days. His sexy and scientific houseman, Gage Need, is missing again. Weirdly, he can never find Gage on some days. Gage keeps talking about physics, molecular what-nots, and time-travel being possible. Unfortunately, Timeo is only drawn to his help’s body, and how he’s attracted to the man: the way Gage swims in the pool, sunbathes, and sleeps. Timeo cannot get the houseman out of his head and heart, but that doesn’t matter now that Gage is missing.
Soon Gage is found. Then rare and unique antiques strangely begin to pile up in the lakeside house, and a phantom blue mist covers the floor outside Gage’s bedroom door. Timeo’s feelings for Gage start to grow, and he becomes more interested in Gage, questioning the man’s activities as a physicist.
When Gage’s quasi-boyfriend Chad turns up missing and Gage becomes the number one suspect regarding his disappearance, Timeo attempts to unravel the mystery and his high-strung emotions for Gage. He begins to wonder if Gage is really time-traveling, using the house as a portal? Is the phantom blue mist on the floor from outer space? And has Timeo fallen too hard and fast for Gage to admit he’s totally in love with the guy?
Gage was a pet on Sumner Street. And what a good pet! Perhaps my pet. I could not have asked for a better houseman. In truth, the man was everything I wanted and desired as an employee. The brownstone was immaculate, my meals were spicy, and the errands I demanded of him were always carried out with much skill. Never had I scolded the amateur scientist and swimmer because of any wrongdoings. Truth said, he probably could have burned down the brownstone and I wouldn’t have been angry with him.
When he wasn’t my pet, in his spare time, for fun, I knew he studied quantum mechanics inside his bedroom: a corpuscular theory of light, wave function, angular momentum, electromagnetic radiation, matric mechanics, string theory, and wave-particle duality.
Of course, his lingo was all gibberish to me. Science this. And science that. I was simply an editor of fiction. A wordsmith by nature. One who critiqued the elaborate elements of writing. I had never had an interest in physics, let alone angular momentum or string theory. When Gage spoke of such detailed hickeys to me, I was left puzzled, in a blurred state of confusion, yet at the same time fascinated by his knowledge of such scientific wonders.
* * * *
Over another gin and tonic, during an evening rainstorm that was lush with his chlorine summer smell and his light perspiration, we discussed his history of being interested in physics. Perhaps half inebriated by his strong drink, which was more gin than tonic (my fault, of course), unable to pace himself with his cocktail, he confessed, “My father was a scientist. Maybe you heard of him. His name was Gerald B. Need.”
I knew of best-selling authors, writing prizes, and the correct use of past participles regarding the construction of sentences. My knowledge of science was limited to vintage episodes of Star Trek and an occasional viewing of the geeky sitcom on television, The Big Bang Theory. Honestly, I admitted to my employee, “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of him. I only know of your uncle Taylor Need here in town. You’ve told me he’s not a scientist.”
“No. Nothing like that,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s into banking and finances.” Then he rambled on and on for the next ten minutes about his deceased father, an award-winning physicist, and a man whom he had shown much respect for. An honorable man who was known for bending engineered sound in his particular field.
“Your father,” I said, “what happened to him? How did he pass?”
“By electrocution. Three years ago. I was in Arizona at the time,” he admitted in a somber tone. “He was manipulating light, creating sound by it, and seven hundred amps fatally jarred his body in his private laboratory. It was a catastrophe at Windmere College. A tragedy that I’m sure you saw on the news or read in the paper. Two other scientists died with him.”
I couldn’t recall a single shred of his nonfiction tale, steering away from the media and its negative brainwashing. “I’m sorry,” I confessed, meaning my heartfelt care to be shared with Gage regarding his loss. “You obviously miss him.”
“I do. More than you know.”
“I too lost my father at a very young age.” I was not about to go into my father’s suicide with my employee, with gruesome details of thick depression and a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his skull. Instead, I directed our shared conversation elsewhere and inquired, “Did you go to his lab with him?”
He shook his head. “Never. He wouldn’t allow me. It was true when he claimed it was too dangerous. Sparks. High-voltage electric. Small fires all the time. He was smart enough to keep me away.”
“Of course,” I responded, realizing his painful loss and the endearing and heartfelt love he had carried for his father.
Thereafter, we toasted our fathers with a fresh gin and tonic, became quite blitzed, almost silly, and fell asleep side by side on the living room’s Finish sofa with our arms accidentally entangled.
How strange that we never mentioned our mothers. Interesting.
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